Grayson
"Prez, your woman's demanded I drive her to some nightclub. You good with that?" Luther's voice crackles through my earpiece, loud enough to grate against the headache already thumping at the base of my skull.
I chew slowly on a piece of licorice, eyes fixed on the photos Mason sent me this morning.
Three male bodies.
What's left of them, anyway.
Hands and feet sawed off. Faces gone—literally carved away—nothing but mangled bone and pulp where features should be.
My jaw ticks as I flip to the next image. Same brutality. Same signature. Same deliberate precision.
Whoever did this didn't just want them dead.
This was a message.
But the real question is...a message to who?
And does it tie back to the trafficking ring—or is this some new bullshit we have to deal with?
I drag
